


Down from Heaven

by thepointoftheneedle



Series: Recognition [5]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Bughead wedding, Drunk Betty Cooper, F/M, Fluff, Owls, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:52:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29263827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepointoftheneedle/pseuds/thepointoftheneedle
Summary: I figured the Bughead fandom might need some fluff.  This is the latest instalment of the recognition series but there isn't too much of a disagreement in this one. It's wedding fluff with pretty mild smut at the end.  And owls.If you want to you can read this as a one shot but it does pick up on a few images from the other stories in the series.The title comes from "Snow Owl"  by The Mountain Goats."You came down from heaven to the branch outside my windowYour feathers were the color of snowThe dice were loaded against us ever seeing each otherBut one of us had nowhere else to goIn your eyes were all the colors the rainbow forgotYour wingspan was three feet wide or betterWith your voice practicing notes from time's own beginningYou took apart the alphabet letter by letter"
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Series: Recognition [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1844407
Comments: 27
Kudos: 53





	Down from Heaven

**Author's Note:**

> The owl thing is real.

She didn’t want to persuade him into something he’d hate with lawyers’ tricks and rhetoric but she knew beyond all certainty that this would be her only wedding day and she wanted it to express some part of the vasty deeps of her feelings. And, despite everything, she wanted to make her mother happy. However she’d fallen for an angsty introvert with an increasingly overdeveloped sense of the ridiculous so he wouldn’t want the three ring circus of most weddings. She’d scheduled one of their “let’s talk about it” sessions and told him, without making any kind of argument, that she’d been thinking that it might be fun to get married in Riverdale, at her mom’s house, and what did he think? “I promise Jug, we could keep it really small and low key but if you’d rather just go to City Hall and get it done one lunchtime and send out announcements afterwards then, of course, we can do that. It’s just, my mom would really like to be at one of her daughter’s weddings and Polly…”

“I know, the shamanic joining ceremony in a sweat lodge wasn’t what she’d had in mind,” he chuckled. “No, that’s fine. Whatever you and your mom decide is what I want.”

“Within reason…” Betty prompted.

“Obviously, within reason,” he smiled. I’m not riding in on a white steed or something. Weddings can get pretty ostentatious. Like owls as ring bearers.”

“Owls?” Betty raised a disbelieving eyebrow. 

“Yeah, totally a thing, look,” Jug typed rapidly on the keyboard that he’d put aside to concentrate on their conversation and then twisted it to show her a website, (“Owl you need is love”), which offered a variety of raptors that would, for a hefty fee, either deliver your wedding rings to the altar or, more likely Betty thought, eviscerate someone’s emotional support ferret and steal a toupee before flying off with the rings, never to be seen again. 

She laughed, “So birds of prey taking a major role in the ceremony is a red line. Anything else? I know you won’t want suits and bridesmaids and groomsmen and all that jazz but anything else that’ll give you the heebie jeebies?”

“No, no. Whatever you’d like.” He stared at the screen for another moment before clearing his throat softly.

“What?” she asked with a smile, pressing the witness a little, knowing that he was having an internal tussle because there was something he wanted to say. “Out with it this second.”

“It’s just, JB. If we don’t ask her, she probably won’t ever get to be a bridesmaid. It might be nice… I mean, not if you’d rather not, obviously.”

“No, I’d love that. But if we ask JB and don’t at least have Ofelia as a flower girl I think Momma Lodge-Andrews will feel slighted. So a bridesmaid and a flower girl? Too much?”

“Not too much,” he said with a slight smile as he pulled the laptop back and returned to his typing and she snuggled against him, just enjoying his nearness, occasionally grabbing his hand to kiss his slender wrist as it paused in its flight over the keys. It wasn’t until much later that evening as she brushed her teeth that she wondered how he had known about the owls. 

She soon began to feel excited about the planning. She hadn’t known that she’d be one of those women who get butterflies in their stomachs at the thought of flower arches and wedding shoes but apparently she was. She hoped that no counsel for the prosecution would hear of it. She snuck the occasional bridal magazine home with the groceries and read it in secret in the bathtub while she soaked her muscles after a long run. She didn’t want to imply to him that their wedding would be disappointing to her because it wouldn’t have any of the things they deemed essentials, it was just fun to look and imagine. He’d be wearing a dark suit, close fitting, the top three buttons of his shirt unfastened, watching her as she walked towards him through flowers, her white silk dress rustling softly across her thighs, fresh flowers scenting her hair. The real thing wasn’t going to be quite the fantasy but it’d still be wonderful, because it was them, declaring their love in front of everyone. She’d decided that she’d wear the sea foam coloured dress that she’d bought for JB’s graduation. It was kind of silky and dressy and he’d liked it a whole lot. She told him she was perfectly happy for him to wear jeans or the cord pants that he wore for readings and that there was an embargo on neckties. She said a t-shirt would be fine but that she liked the blue button down shirt that she’d bought him for Christmas and, if it was comfortable, he might want to wear that. She thought he looked a little concerned when she said that, so she withdrew the idea and said that if he wore sweats and a tank that she’d be just as happy and it’d be easier to get him out of them afterwards so there was something to be said for them too. She began to worry that she was letting the whole thing get out of hand so she asked if he wanted to raise any objection to a bridal bouquet and he snapped, “I’ve told you a million times Betts, whatever you want is fine. Just do it however you’d like. Okay?” and she nodded and tried not to cry in front of him. It was crazy to expect him to be as excited as her about it. His introversion would make a day of intense social interaction a challenge. He was putting himself through it for her. She just hoped he wasn’t getting cold feet, not about them, she knew he was all in with her, but about the day, the hoopla of it all.

He was reticent about the bachelor party, saying that it was an absurd convention and he’d skip it. She thought he should have some male bonding as a rite of passage but he said that since he didn’t have a best man to organise it, it was moot. “Well maybe you should have Archie with you, day of, to calm your wedding jitters. As long as you don’t think it’s too much.”

“Bold of you to assume I’d pick Archie,” he grumbled and she flat out laughed at him. 

“Okay, one of your other guy pals. Sweetpea? Neil? Kevin, oh yes, pick Kevin. Please. I’d love to see his face if you asked him.”

“Okay, I’ll ask Archie,” he said and gave a small, embarrassed smile. 

Veronica was organising the bachelorette since Betty's bridesmaid was in Colorado until the eve of the wedding. Betty had asked that it should be a quiet girls’ night somewhere relaxed, where she could eat mac n cheese and drink a couple of glasses of white wine, but she couldn’t really claim to be surprised when she found herself behind a red velvet rope in the VIP area of an already exclusive cocktail lounge on Sixth Avenue with a very diverse and disparate group of women, friends from home, a few of the women from her office, a couple of ex-defendants and a judge. Betty asked for a glass of Chardonnay when the server approached but Veronica wouldn’t accept that from the bride to be. “Come on Betty, what would you really like, not the safest wine in the world. I’m sure they can get you just about anything.”

Betty blushed and whispered to her friend. Ronnie looked at her with a touch of judgment but then ordered jugs of margaritas for the table with such assurance that the waiter didn’t dare look down his nose at them. V had asked what she’d like and she couldn’t help it if her tastes bordered on the basic. She really liked a margarita.

Two hours later Betty was sobbing into the bottom of a margarita jug, entirely non compos mentis. She’d stopped pouring them into her glass half an hour ago and was just swigging determinedly from the source now while her bridal party watched in fascinated horror as if they were witnessing an especially grisly crime. Veronica put a hand on her arm and tried to get her to slow down a little but she wouldn’t be dissuaded. Eventually she began to hiccup so she had to set the jug down to avoid spilling any of its precious nectar.That meant she could give her full attention to the crying. “I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed V but I want everyone to see how proud I am to be his wife, how happy he makes me. I want to declare it to everyone we know.” She stood unsteadily and stretched her arms out to the VIP area and yelled, “I get to marry Jughead Jones. He’s clever and beautiful and has a magic peen!”

Veronica pulled her back into the banquette and put a hand over her mouth as Toni and Cheryl and the girls from her office stared at her with wide eyes. This was a new incarnation of La Cooper that no-one except V had met before. “Okay honey, you are a very lucky girl but don’t let’s brag about it to the whole world or they’ll all want some. We’ll keep it our secret.”

Cheryl raised a finely curated eyebrow at Betty, “Cousin, if everything in the lady garden is so lovely why, pray tell, are you as drunk as a skunk and crying like someone killed your kitten?”

Veronica gave her a Lodge death stare as she stroked Berry’s hair and let her cry over her Balenciaga clad shoulder. “I think it’s freaking him out,” she sobbed. “Every time I ask him if something is too much he says it isn’t because he’s good and kind but he gets this weird look on his face so I think it’s making him feel crazy but he won’t say that because he wouldn’t disappoint me.” She ran out of breath and gasped a little before picking up her theme again. “I suppose we should cancel the arrangements, the chairs we hired, the celebrant, and just sneak off to City Hall but I don’t want to. I want to look pretty for him and show everyone how excited I am that he loves me. How selfish is that?”

Toni looked at her softly, moved the jug out of reach and stroked her back as she sobbed. “You need to ask him what he really wants Betty. He’s not that averse to a grand gesture is he? But maybe not tonight.”

“No, not tonight.” Veronica nodded and took command of the situation. “Let’s pour you into a cab darling and send you home to your lover.”

Jug’s bachelor party was much less bougie. Archie had wisely chosen a bar that was better known for its food than its cocktail menu and Jug was spending quality time with the burgers and fries while Reggie and Sweetpea arm wrestled and Kevin and Fangs fed quarters into an ironically retro eighties jukebox, yelling out euro pop bangers at top volume. His publisher, Neil, was getting involved in some arcane argument about football with Archie which was washing over him as he began work on a plate of hot wings, in only moderate discomfort. He drank two beers which was his self imposed limit and was feeling pleasantly buzzed. There was a pool tournament in which Jug lacked either the skill or the inclination to participate but he watched indulgently as Archie was trounced and came over to sit with him, apparently to deliver best-manly advice. “Nervous yet?” he asked with an entirely unnecessary punch to the shoulder.

“Not about being married." Jughead couldn’t imagine feeling anything but eager to be married to her. She was the marquee name of his life, it was 'Jug’s Life, starring Betty Cooper-Jones' and then in much smaller font 'with Jughead Cooper-Jones.' "It’s just the wedding…” 

“I know, but it’s a wedding Jug. It’s meant to be kind of awful for the guy. When Ronnie and I got married I just pretended I was somewhere else and waited for it to be over. I was standing there at the altar trying to remember all the plays from high school football. And then it was done and we got to be married. It’s like a trial. Will you go through all that to get the girl? Is she worth it?”

“It’s not like that Arch.” He blushed. “She’s being really thoughtful, running everything past me and asking if I feel comfortable with it, you know.”

“Not really. Ronnie just told me to suck it up. I told her that I was allergic to those big daisy things and she didn’t speak to me for a week, said I was trying to ruin everything. So I just sneezed all day and she said I was doing it on purpose to make a point. But I got to be married to her so it worked out okay. Hold the line. It’ll soon be over.”

Jug couldn’t tell his pal that his problem with the arrangements was rather different. All the romantic comedies showed put upon grooms trying to navigate their way through a ridiculous ceremony with some appalling bridezilla, pretending to an interest in cake and table settings that it would be impossible for a man to feel. But he did feel it, felt it terribly. He wanted her to wear a meringue dress and a tiara, wanted to wait for her at the end of an aisle strewn with roses wearing a suit that cost the same amount of money as a reliable Japanese automobile. He was the fucking bridezilla. 

He’d been trying to work out whether he could broach any of that with her without revealing a degree of emasculating weirdness that’d change the way she saw him forever. And there were other considerations too. Who did he think he’d be kidding with an expensive suit? Everyone would know it was false advertising, that he was a jeans and flannel guy. And how could he justify them spending a year’s salary on a dress that she’d wear once and, according to the bridal magazines that he read furtively in grocery stores and dentist’s offices, would be so unwieldy that she wouldn’t be able to pee all day. The consequences of that would be horrifying, she’d either have a UTI on their honeymoon or her kidneys would explode. And who would dare to ask JB to wear lilac satin and a coronet of jasmine? She’d be positively dangerous.

He must have drifted off a little because Archie was shaking his arm as he asked, “Have you said anything to her?”

Jug looked at him in surprise. Archie was being the mature and sensible one and it was a jolt. “No, I know I should…”

“No, fuck no, Jug. Don’t say a word. Like I say just suck it up and wait for the honeymoon. I promise you, that’s how guys get through this.” Jughead knew he meant real guys, guys who didn’t long for fabric bows on the backs of the dining chairs and one of those Kim and Kanye flower walls.

He drank a shot to be polite, hated it and thought he might throw up, refused point blank to go on to either karaoke or a strip club so the party broke up at ten and he got the subway home. 

Back in the apartment he grabbed his laptop and tried to redraft the troublesome chapter eight while he waited for the bachelorette to come home. His phone woke him, still on the couch, at one thirty, Veronica texting to tell him to prepare for incoming with Tylenol and a bucket. He went downstairs to wait in the lobby for the cab and when it pulled up he went out and paid the driver before reaching into the cab to pull Betty into his arms as she began to ugly cry at him. It quickly became clear that it was easier to just carry her to the elevator than deal with her frequent stops to apologise or berate herself for her condition or to try to go back out because she’d forgotten to pay the cab fare. She slumped against him as they ascended so he put her back over his shoulder in a fireman’s lift when they reached their floor and she was soon deposited on their bed. He sat next to her as she acclimatised to her new environment and eventually she was able to focus on him and say “Hi.”

“Hi, you lush. Did you have a good time?” 

“I don’t know. I may have shouted something inappropriate. I think I was crying in the club.”

“Why? Just the booze?”

“No but I think I need to be sobererer… to tell you. We can talk tomorrow,” His face must have shown his plunging fear at those words because she kissed his cheek and smiled wonkily. “Nothing bad. I love you too horribly for it to be bad.” Soon she was snoring softly so he went and fetched the glass of water that she’d need when she woke and slid into bed next to her. As he did so he saw another text message from the architect of this carnage. “She OK? So fun! There’s a video that you should see.” He texted “OK. Video?” but got no further reply.

The next day she hid under the comforter until one thirty in the afternoon and then crawled out of bed to stand, at an uncomfortable angle in the living room, one hand shielding her eyes. He was still wrestling with chapter eight but he shook his head, took off his glasses and headed into the kitchen to fetch her water and dry toast. “I’m sorry Jug. I was a mess. I know that probably made you upset,” she said, leaning against the refrigerator.

“Hey Betty, it was your party. If you want to drink that’s fine. My hang ups are mine. I’m just concerned if you were drinking because you were sad rather than because you were happy. It doesn’t help. You know that as well as me. So what’s the problem? Want to put off the wedding and think about it some more?” 

“No!” she yelled, and then clasped a hand to her forehead and sank onto one of the bar stools, cradling her head in her hands in pain. “No,” she whispered. “If I could marry you today I would, hangover and all. I’d sing Paper Rings at you if it wouldn’t make my brain leak out of my ears.” She looked up at him, tears glinting in her eyes, “It’s just that I want you to be happy about the day and I don’t think you are. I’m worried that I’ve made it into some big dog and pony show and that you’re squirming inside and I’ve been too self obsessed to consider you properly. So, again Jug, if you want to get married in City Hall or run off to Vegas and go to one of those quick chapels, that’s totally fine and I’ll love it because I love you.” 

He pushed the toast in front of her, “I love you too.” He paused and rubbed the back of his neck. He thought he’d been convincing as he agreed to her wedding plans but clearly he’d fallen short and now his stupid fantasies were beginning to hurt her and prevent her from enjoying the most special day of their lives. That was not the way to show he loved her. “Betts, I’m having this absolutely stupid crisis about my masculinity. And it’s screwing me up. And I’m sorry if it’s screwing you up too.”

She gave a single explosive laugh, clutched her temples again and then stared at him with wide eyes. “Sorry. Confused. That’s literally the last thing I expected you to say. What does that mean?”

“I know that the wedding is supposed to be a kind of girl thing. It’s just for the guy to show up and not get into a fist fight or pee on the front of his pants before the photographs. But see, I want the whole nine yards. Dresses and suits and flowers and a dance floor and something borrowed and something blue and the thrown bouquet and…shit, just all of it. I love you so much. This... us, it’s like a spiritual thing for me. I mean when I look for something greater than myself it’s you, it’s us. When I look for meaning it’s us, this, what we have. And I don’t want the most spiritual moment in my life to happen while I’m wearing a pair of cord pants that I last wore to give a reading in Atlanta to four old ladies and a dog. I want it to be a big deal, huge. I want a fucking flower wall. But then I feel like that’s not what an actual dude should want so I keep hoping that you’ll want it but you’re trying to plan the wedding you thought I’d want so neither of us is getting exactly what we need from it. So I’m sorry I wasn’t honest about it. I was ashamed.”

She shook her head but stopped quickly when the hangover reminded her of its presence. “First, if there are guys out there not in crisis about what it means to be a man then they’re missing the point. You’re twice the man any of those bro dudes will ever be. You’re secure enough to not be threatened by a woman doing her own thing her way. Your support for me has allowed me to achieve things I never thought I could. Some weird romantic comedy narrative has done a number on you about this. It wasn't because you’re a man that I thought you'd hate a big wedding. I thought that because you’re an introvert. It’s sort of wonderful and sexy and romantic that you want to go big on our wedding, that it means that much to you. If you want a flower wall, a flower wall we shall have. I have a couple of bridal magazines so, once I’ve brushed my teeth and made myself feel human, the planning will commence. Not the garter thing though. That’s icky.’

“No, not that. And you have to have a dress that’s comfortable. It’s important that you can pee.” She looked at him oddly but went to change while he opened browser windows with pictures of floral arrangements and wedding stationary feeling excited and giddy. 

The planning was fun and fraught and sort of absurd. They had an all out fight about the relative merits of red velvet vanilla or lemon and white chocolate wedding cakes, before opting for two tiers, one of each kind. Flower walls were ordered at eye-watering expense. Veronica took him to a tailor and translated his fantasy suit into a long list of unfamiliar vocabulary, English cut, dual vent, narrow notch. He was prodded and measured and asked such invasively personal questions that he wasn’t sure if he’d been fitted for clothes or assaulted. However, as he told Betty afterwards it had begun to resolve his issues around his masculinity. “These guys, the tailors, do this all the time, have done for generations. It’s a thing for men to go there and openly care about this shit. It makes me wonder if guys like me, who haven’t been allowed to be interested in this are the glitch, the aberration.” And when the suit arrived it was amazing, fitted like nothing had ever fitted him before. He could feel how every element had come to exist over hundreds of years of refinement and adaptation. He thought he could get into it, become a suit guy. She disappeared for long afternoons for what she called “dress stuff,” to return giggly, excited and unbelievably turned on. He liked those appointments.

She knew that everyone remembered their wedding day fondly but she couldn’t imagine that everyone had a day as perfect and beautiful as he had given to her. Their friends had gathered in the back yard of her mother’s home to watch them declare their commitment to each other. No-one gave anyone away, they gave themselves. There had been a great many flowers. JB had sewn her own dress, a tiered and gauzy affair in sage coloured fabric teamed with a studded bracelet and laced boots that was both entirely her and entirely perfect. Veronica had bought a dress for Ofelia that was a confection of ruffles and bows and almost certainly had a designer label. “She’ll get lots of wear from it Betty darling, it’s such a useful item.” Betty felt a little sorry for her goddaughter that she’d go to such a great many events that called for ruffles before she outgrew it. Then there was her groom. He stood at the flower covered altar, looking back as she walked towards him, smiling. It was a great suit, a perfume ad kind of suit that emphasised his lithe and beautiful shape but it was the softness in his eyes, the love she saw there that took her breath away. She could hardly believe that her scrappy, hollow eyed, desperate teen boyfriend had become this successful, sleek and gorgeous man but she loved them both with an absolute devotion, the boy and the man, always. As she reached him he looked at her with unconcealed lust that made her blush. “It’s a great dress. I can’t wait to see it on a hanger,” he whispered and she giggled. The vows had elicited more than a few tears both from them and the guests, Reggie in particular had been a mess. Her husband had taken her hands in his and looked into her eyes as he spoke,

“You told me once that your life is unthinkable without me Betts, and likewise your love is the bedrock on which my life is built. It’s the firmest foundation I could have chosen. It’s unwavering and I am endlessly thankful for it. We’ve learned how to love each other over long years. You give me words of love when I need to hear them, I see the gestures that you use to express your heart and I am so grateful for them. You call our life together a joint enterprise. You’re strong in the places that I’m weak, I live for the moments where I can give you the help you need. We’ve built strong and we know we can weather whatever storms will come, sheltering each other, warming each other. There will be days when I drive you crazy with my insecurity and my drama. There will be days when you’re so busy and driven by your passion for justice that you don’t see me. I promise on those days to forgive us both. I promise to listen when you speak and to hear what you say. I promise to talk to you about what matters to me and to remember that you love me more than I could deserve and better than I can imagine. I promise to make this joint enterprise my highest value, my best and most important project. I promise to always pay for the guac for you, I promise to play it as it lays with you, I promise never to keep anything from you. I love the broken crockery, I love the laundry disasters, I love the refilled coffee machine and the goodbye kisses, the bunny slippers and the never letting go. Thank you for choosing me.” 

She dabbed at her eyes and the celebrant nodded and she began to speak her own words, her voice cracking, her professional skill in speaking aloud deserting her somewhat with the emotion of the occasion. “Jughead Jones. I love you. I wanted to analyse that statement, break down what it means, but I found that I couldn’t. It is a fact but it’s not like other facts. Other facts have contexts and causes, reasons and rationalisations. Loving you is just part of who I am. All I can do is tell you what it means. It means that I choose you. When I need help or advice I want you to give it. When I feel overwhelmed and begin to spiral I want your voice in my ear to calm me. I want to be the person who you come to with your crisis of confidence or your strange imaginings. I want you to talk to me about the crack in the ceiling or your fears about our pensions. You have shown me what love means, when you sold your motorcycle to pay for my tuition in college, when you made sure I had a savings account in my name, when you worried about me and supported me and made sure I had what I wanted before even thinking of yourself. You show me with the hospital corners on our bed, with the patience with which you deal with my trash disasters and my baking messes, with the nutritionally balanced dinners and the amazing weekend trips. I promise to talk to you when I get anxious or confused. I promise to love you in the ways that you can understand as well as the ways I know, I promise not to assume what you want because you contain multitudes and you always surprise me. Thank you for this beautiful wedding, thank you for wearing this suit, thank you for being the man that I love.”

Jughead, eyes wet, had glanced over at Archie, waiting for him to produce the rings but Archie had stared at him and patted his empty pockets. She only allowed him to panic for a moment before she gave the signal and a snowy feathered owl had been released down the aisle, rings glinting from ribbons tied to its claws. Archie had put out a gauntleted arm and the owl had landed securely as Jug laughed in delight. She knew he’d wanted the owl.

There had been no formal speeches or toasts but many private and moving expressions of love and hopes for their future together, there had been music and good food and friends. They had waltzed a little awkwardly to a song that no-one had been able to prevail upon Archie not to write and perform. The party had gone on long into the night and everyone had gathered in the street to wave them goodbye as he swept her away to a mystery destination.

The day after their wedding he woke up to blinding sunshine streaming through the window at the Five Seasons. Apparently they had been too preoccupied to close the drapes properly. He’d wondered if she’d understand the significance of the room but as he’d carried her over the threshold she’d whispered, “Now I really am your queen aren’t I?” and his heart had thudded both because she understood him so well and because she found his love of symbolism moving rather than creepy. He knew some folks thought a wedding was an empty gesture when the couple already lived together but it wasn’t true for him. Their wedding was a declaration of the fact that she had chosen him and that he had made himself worthy of her. It had been a hard battle to learn to accept her love and he knew that there would be battles yet to fight but to know that she would always fight under the same banner was everything he could have dreamed of. 

The wedding had been an outward expression of that dream. He had been relieved that she looked like her, an exquisitely dressed version of her but still his girl that he loved beyond all reason. There had been a moment when her formidable mother had approached him and he had wondered if he should brace himself for criticism but she had simply said, “Thank you Jughead. It’s a beautiful wedding. You’re good for each other,” and he’d said “Thanks you Mrs S. She’s everything in the world to me.” Mrs S had wept and he’d had to bite his lip to keep himself from joining her. 

As he’d helped her out of her dress he had kissed her neck. “You know the wedding night thing isn’t compulsory Betts. If you’re too tired it doesn’t matter.”

“I’ve been struggling to contain myself since I first saw the suit, husband. I demand my conjugal rights. Consummate me this minute.” she smiled.

“I’m not sure that’s how that verb works my love but your meaning is received and understood. I stand ready to serve. Quite literally. With the magic peen.”

She looked at him in alarm. “V showed you the video.”

He grinned. “She did. It was pretty flattering but I made her delete it in case you ever get appointed to the Supreme Court.”

The lingerie was beyond his wildest imagination, her skin golden and fragrant, the lace in lavender and pearl. She showed him the clasp between her breasts and he thought there should be some kind of Oscars for bra designers. To be able to kiss and touch her breasts as he freed them from the lace with no awkward blind fumbling was thrilling. He refastened it so that he could do it again as she laughed in delight. There had been languorous kisses and playful scratches, warm breath blown over damp skin, murmured endearments rumbling against sensitive flesh. She was a safe haven, warm and welcoming, the resting place that he could return to over and over again. He knew how to bring her to the edge, to hold her there, all anticipation, need, yearning, hold her there until she cried out, “Please Juggie, please, oh please,” and then, with a thrust or a pinch to tumble her from heights, and still be there to catch her when she fell. He knew which touches would make her eyes widen at his daring and which would reassure her of his devotion. She knew his body too, when she ran her tongue against him, purring and making him tremble, her hand exploring and teasing, her teeth dragging against his flesh until he felt that he might lose control. He knew he would never make love to another woman and yet the mysteries and varieties of her were endlessly fascinating. At last he thrust raggedly against her breathless, panting, groaning and she whispered, “Husband,” and he cried out in ecstasy, collapsing against her, exhausted and fulfilled.

Now he smiled as he felt the heavy satisfied ache in his limbs, looked down at his wife slumbering in his arms and kissed her hair. She looked up and smiled and the sunlight on her face and the trust in her eyes made the tears fall at last. 

“Happy tears?” she murmured.

“The happiest,” he whispered.


End file.
